Lost Souls
by Malhearst
Summary: When a new law is announced, Draco Malfoy has to make a choice: to finally sell his soul to the devil or to keep it. Voldemort Wins!AU


**Author's Note:** Written for QLFC (Season 4, Round 8). Position: Keeper for the Falmouth Falcons

 **Word Count:** 2,743

 _Write a Voldemort Wins!AU that focuses on the laws implemented by Voldemort/the Death Eaters._

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Immense thanks to my teammate Tiggs, without whom I couldn't have done this.

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DENIAL

 _Click-clack-click. Click-clack-click. Click-clack-click._

His mother's nails hit the dining table with rhythmic precision, each round preceding the tick of the grandfather clock. Draco had often wondered about the clock.

Not the style, of course─it stood proud and Victorian against the wall, surveying the Malfoy family with austerity, and Draco often mused that it had probably been a present from the Black family─no, he'd wondered what a Muggle clock was doing in his house. Never had he heard it spoken of between his parents; never had he found it to have any magical properties.

Across from him, his mother silently folded up the newspaper and handed it over, done with her crosswords.

His father's chair was conspicuously empty.

Opening up the Daily Prophet, Draco's eyes strayed to the first headline on the page: _By Ministerial Decree_. The first article was always the same: a list of new laws instated by the new Regime, as the Ministry called it.

Eyes only skimming the page, Draco almost turned the leaf. If not for catching that one, unholy word, he would have missed it.

 _Horcrux_ , it said in tiny script, almost written as an afterthought. Draco searched the sentence frantically for meaning again and again.

"Mother," he said.

"Yes, Draco?"

"You will want─"

A loud _pop_ sounded from the hallway, and Draco and his mother looked at each other in defeat, both falling silent. A moment later, Lucius Malfoy strode into the dining room, something manic in his step. "They have finally done it!"

It was his politician's way, Draco thought a little bitterly, to talk about the other Ministry employees as if he was both part of and apart from them. Draco hated his diplomatic way of basking in the miniscule glory and power he gained from being one of the Death Eaters still loyal before the final victory.

Everyone who mattered knew it was a lie.

"Done what, dear?" his mother asked. They were both living the lie.

"They've found a way to test the loyalty of all those who claim a place in the new Regime!"

Draco, dread spreading through his body, frowned. "How could they possibly?" He was horrifyingly aware that he didn't sound as sceptical as he did scared.

His father looked down at him with a sneer on his face. "It's not perfect, Draco, but it's certainly effective."

Although he knew what was coming, Draco still had to ask, "What is it, then?"

"By Ministerial decree, every subject must make a Horcrux and trust it to the Ministry." The glee in his father's voice was out of place and distasteful to Draco, but Draco said nothing. Instead, he looked at his mother, whose keen eyes were already on him.

 _I tried to tell you_.

"Surely, we won't have to prove our loyalty?" she asked, always to the rescue. It was only a thin string of hope, but Draco found it worth clinging to nonetheless.

Still standing, his father knitted his eyebrows and lifted his chin, looking down at Narcissa. "Every subject, darling. We should be proud to be given this opportunity to redeem ourselves."

His gaze fell on Draco, and Draco thought there was something both pleading and haughty in it.

ANGER

"How stupid is that?" Draco cast a spell as he said it, and a leaf that had been floating toward the ground burst into flames.

"Not as stupid as _that_." Blaise inclined his head toward the smouldering embers. "And perhaps you shouldn't scream your opinion on the new laws so loudly. Someone might hear you."

Draco turned his head. Although Blaise seemed calm, his voice had an edge to it. He was right, of course; after gaining complete control over wizaridng Britain, no one knew exactly when the Dark Lord might be listening. The old superstition that his name brought misfortune had been revived, and most people, even Death Eaters, now resorted to using 'the Dark Lord'.

Taking it one step further, Draco didn't even dare to think of the Dark Lord by his proper name.

Not long ago, he'd accidentally tuned in to what he thought might have been a rebel broadcast on the radio. They had called the Dark Lord Macbeth, which had meant nothing to Draco until he'd stumbled upon the name in Muggle London. A poster of a madman had blown from its perch on a temporary wooden wall, and Draco had decided to look further into the play.

With the Dark Lord's heavy reliance on prophecies, his unfortunate name, and the death toll following him, Draco had reluctantly admitted to himself that the name was apt.

In fact, he might start using it himself.

"You can't tell me you're actually going to go through with this," Draco responded, unsure if Blaise would connect the dots to what they had been talking about.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his friend giving him a searching look─one eyebrow raised and eyes flickering as if Draco might yield some crucial information─but he said nothing else. Holding his tongue was usually the best way to get answers out of Blaise Zabini.

"You're acting as if we have a choice," Blaise finally said.

"Well, we should have a choice! Our families are pure-bloods!"

"More reason for us to revel in the death of those who are not pure." It was a habit of Blaise's to repeat others' opinions to mask his own. Most people didn't question it when Blaise made a declaration like the one he just had, but Draco knew better.

Stopping in his tracks, he turned to look at him. "You don't mean that." A pause. "What do you really think?"

Blaise met his gaze for a moment, and Draco thought he saw his friend steel himself.

"I don't, Draco." Knowing Blaise to take pride in his own mental capabilities, hearing him say these words sent shivers down Draco's spine. It meant total control; it meant that Blaise, who had never followed anyone else's suggestion on how to live his life, was censuring his thoughts before they even appeared. "I don't think."

BARGAINING

A part of him wanted to visit Professor Snape. He was dead, of course, which made it a ridiculous thought─a desperate one. Draco had never confided in his old Potions professor while he was alive or thought of him as a father figure, but in the light of his death, Snape took on the quality of a saviour in Draco's eyes. It was paradoxical that Draco only realised who might have saved him once they had proven him wrong. Potter had lost; Snape had died. The world had paid its price.

Besides, although they had never talked about it, Draco knew his parents had the distinct feeling that they were all being watched, too.

The Malfoys had finally received their summons to create their Horcruxes. The Ministry letter had been almost pedagogical, explaining that Horcruxes were advanced pieces of magic, which was why only people of age were called upon to make them. It further stated that the way to create a Horcrux would not be acquired knowledge prior to the ritual, and that the ritual would be overseen and helped by the Dark L─Macbeth, Draco corrected─himself. It further explained that every subject to the Regime was bound by Ministerial decree to only create one Horcrux; creating more or refusing to either create or submit a Horcrux would result in a Dark Mark upon their house. Essentially, refusing to cooperate was a death sentence.

Draco had shuddered when reading the letter, reminded that most people didn't know what making a Horcrux entailed. Neither did he, but he knew the most crucial part: he had to take a life.

He wondered if the process could really be that simple and what the consequence would be if a person's magic wasn't strong enough to create the Horcrux.

"What if we didn't?" he muttered one day. What he thought had been inaudible, however, had reached both his parents.

"Draco," his father said, dragging his name out as if it were a warning in itself.

"What do you mean, my dear?" his mother asked, but he could hear the edge in her voice.

Draco shrugged as if it had all been a simple but fleeting thought. "We could leave the country. We don't have to yield."

Ambition had given way to fear in the Malfoys, but his father still seemed to mistake the two. Jumping up with something like zealous vigour, he shrieked, "Draco, you have to do this!"

Something in his father's voice made Draco wince. The desperation was so clear, hiding below the surface like a Grindylow, ready to strike.

Draco smiled grimly at that thought. It seemed he'd learned more from Care of Magical Creatures than he'd care to admit. Even that great oaf Hagrid was someone he would remember with fondness and bitterness in equal measures─if only as an icon of his childhood.

His mother, hands cold as always, came over, bent down, and held his face for a few, intense moments. "Don't worry, Draco. It's just a flash, and then it's over."

Draco stared at them. How easy for them to say; they had never hesitated to determine who lived and who died. His father had been ready to give Potter up to the Dark Lord when the Snatchers brought him to Malfoy Manor, whereas his mother had been ready to lie to Lord Voldemort to save Potter's life. They'd both been judges of life and death; all Draco had ever done was falter.

DEPRESSION

He was going to kill someone.

The sky outside was a dull grey. Draco, despite having listened to Pansy all his school years, couldn't even describe it with a fancy name. It wasn't a periwinkle or lavender. No chartreuse or bordeaux. It wasn't even slate grey, it was just plain and boring─an empty void of nothing but endless greys.

Lying in his bed, Draco drew a deep breath, and it felt like giving up. It felt like losing himself in the air he exhaled, only to inhale a piece of someone else. He hadn't been able to identify Potter, back in their seventh year, because he didn't want it to be him.

Perhaps he'd known he needed saving already then.

He hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore either because Draco had always been excruciatingly aware of what would be lost. He'd put his faith in Professor Snape, who'd been rewarded with death.

Death might be sweeter, Draco mused for a moment before abandoning that line of thought. He'd been down that road one too many times already.

The covers around him felt restraining, and he kicked against them a couple of times in a panicked moment. His pyjamas were too much, and he tumbled out of bed, trying to rip them off. In the end, he ended up on the floor, staring up into his ceiling and breathing heavily.

There was only one day left. His parents had made their Horcruxes already. Items of no monetary or ancestral value now resided in the Department of Mysteries along with the thousands of other tokens of complete and utter surrender. One of these items was the grandfather clock.

Draco had been right; it didn't belong.

A choked sound escaped his throat, and Draco put a hand to his lips. He could hear nothing but the sound of his heartbeat. He could feel nothing but the urge to cry.

Imagining the defeat of taking someone else's life made him crumble on the floor, his knees weak. Helplessness coursed through his veins, and it made him angry before it made him tired. It was all the emotion he could muster. Tomorrow, by this time, he would have killed someone, handing over the chipped teacup that his mother hated so much but hadn't found a replacement for. Being turned into a Horcrux seemed like an apt punishment for its failings.

Tomorrow, by this time, he would have proven himself to be Macbeth's servant.

The worst part was that Draco wasn't fooled. His father thought this was the end─the final test of their adoration. Draco knew better; this was only the beginning of their fear.

ACCEPTANCE

The Ministry was polished, as usual. Draco didn't know why he had expected differently, but something told him it should have been a grimy, broken-down monument to what had been. Instead, it looked and sounded the same: just Ministry workers discussing Ministry files and asking for reports as if the world wasn't about to end.

His father had chosen to escort him. It wasn't necessary, Draco had argued, but he saw now that his father wasn't doing it for his sake. He'd shaved and made cosmetic cover-ups of the bags under his eyes. He'd put on his best suit. He was smiling and telling anyone willing to listen that the Malfoys were finally going to enter the services of the Dark Lord once and for all, body and soul.

A snide smile appeared whenever his father repeated the last part─as if he was immensely clever in making a pun on giving up his soul to the Dark Lord.

Draco, too, kept his chin held high. He'd decided to act like his father, a miniature version of a person without a conscience. If he could make others believe that nothing was wrong, he hoped to believe it himself.

Their shoes _click-clacked_ against the marble floors as they made their way towards the elevators.

"Where to, Lucius?" someone greeted them as they entered, and Draco felt annoyed with himself that he didn't recognise the man─as if he was still just a young boy, hanging by the hem of his father's cloak, only someone by association.

"Level 2," his father said.

Draco cocked an eyebrow. "I thought we were going to the Department of Mysteries."

"No, no," his father laughed superciliously. "We're going to the Wizengamot. The Department of Mysteries is for storage only." The two men presented each other with fleeting smiles, but Draco stared straight ahead without comment before they could meet his gaze.

As they arrived at the level, his father gently guided him out, and Draco decided to walk a little faster to escape the palm on his back. The Wizengamot wasn't far down the corridor, and as they stopped in front of the door, his father looked down at him. "Are you ready?"

Without looking up, Draco smiled instinctively and said, "Of course."

The door opened, but his father made no move to follow him inside. It halted Draco for one moment, but the mere thought that he would have to be pushed inside by his father got him walking again.

Behind him, the door slammed.

Draco walked forward to a dais, upon which stood a table with contraptions he'd never seen before.

"Draco Malfoy," someone spoke, and Draco looked up. Three Death Eaters in plum-coloured robes looked down at him, and Macbeth himself stood at the podium where the Head of Magical Law Enforcement would once have judged criminals: judge, jury, and executioner.

"Yes," Draco responded.

"We're here to guide you through this process. Don't be afraid. We'll take it all in steps." The man speaking gave Draco a moment to process this. "The first step will be to take a life."

Looking around, Draco wondered snidely if he was supposed to have brought his own victim too. Hearing a sound to his right, he turned to see two men holding someone between them. Whoever it was, they were thrashing around, a bag pulled over their head.

Draco looked up at the Death Eater who had addressed him earlier, hoping against hope that there was no plea in his eyes.

"She's a Mudblood. You don't need to feel remorse; she has opposed the Dark Lord several times and been the cause of many deaths on our side."

An endless silence stretched between them, and Draco felt unsure if he was supposed to say something.

"We've chosen her for you especially."

Looking over, he saw the bag being pulled off her head, hair flying.

"Granger?" he asked.

"Draco?" she responded with equal amounts of disbelief.

"Draco Malfoy," the Death Eater who had addressed him throughout the session said. "You may now begin the first step."


End file.
